


Bad Moon Rising

by sharkhette



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Drunken Confessions, First Kiss, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:01:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22205251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkhette/pseuds/sharkhette
Summary: Jaskier had never expected it would be Geralt trying to kill him. Sure, the witcher liked to threaten as much, but they both knew he'd never make good on it. They were friends, whatever Geralt said.But friends didn't try to rip each other's throats out with their teeth._______Or, Geralt returns from a hunt acting strange.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 147
Kudos: 4961





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cheerfully ignoring any and all canon, as the lord intended.
> 
> Second chapter from Geralt's POV.

The moon rose early that evening, a thin sliver in the sky glinting cold and hard as a silver blade. On the ground, fog rolled in like a shroud, whispering around their ankles and bringing with it a shivering chill. Jaskier drew his cloak more firmly around his shoulders, stepping closer to Roach as he trudged along at her side. In the saddle, Geralt ignored the moon and the fog and Jaskier alike, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.

“Stopping soon?” Jaskier asked hopefully, tipping his head up to check Geralt’s expression. 

Geralt looked grim, though no more so than usual. They were short on coin and the last town had been less than welcoming, refusing them a room based on the witcher’s looks. There was only so much Jaskier could do for Geralt’s reputation, though he would never admit it. Some people simply wanted to cling to their prejudices. Still: at least they’d stopped short of hurling stones at the witcher as they’d ridden on. Jaskier would never forget the first time he’d realized that Geralt was accustomed to that sort of sendoff.

The town before that, Geralt had been hired to kill a werewolf that had been plaguing their livestock and the occasional farmer. The hunt had been straightforward enough, and only needed a little embellishment to make it a good story, but Jaskier didn't like the ones where the monster looked human, in the end. Geralt had cut the beast down as the first light of dawn climbed over the horizon, and the wolf had writhed and howled its way out of its pelt, leaving behind a very human corpse, cleaved in half by Geralt's silver sword.

Jaskier still wasn't sure how to make that more palatable to a hungry audience.

“We’ll reach Blackwater in another mile,” Geralt said, not looking at him.

Jaskier heaved a sigh and adjusted his pack’s straps. His feet hurt and his back ached and he hadn’t eaten in too many hours, and there was only so much romanticizing he could do before he had to admit that it was a miserable fucking affair. Even Roach looked done with it, her head low and her steps plodding as she picked her way across the hard ground. It was late autumn, but already freezing at night, and the almanac promised a harsh winter that would land all too soon. Following Geralt along through the summer to sing tales of his exploits and steal a share of his coin had been well and good, but Jaskier had no wish to do the same all winter, dragging his frozen body through the snow from town to town, dogging Geralt’s footsteps. Or Roach’s, more accurately. His idea of a good winter was to hole up in a decent-sized city and hibernate through the worst of the weather, emerging only for drinks, songs, and, if he was lucky, to meet a bedwarmer or two. Geralt, however, seemed to be of the opinion that if the monsters didn’t hibernate, he wasn’t going to, either.

“This was your idea,” Geralt said, as if Jaskier had been bitching aloud instead of in the privacy of his own head.

“Things will pick up in Blackwater,” Jaskier said decisively. “We’ve just had a string of bad luck, is all. Maybe they’ll even have a monster for you to kill!” He was more desperate for coin than glory, at this point. He wanted food more than he wanted new lyrics, not that he’d admit that, either.

Geralt grunted, not gracing his optimism with a reply.

As they approached the town, the fog only grew thicker, to the extent that Jaskier had to take hold of Geralt’s stirrup to keep track of him. They were all but blind as they passed the signpost that marked Blackwater’s borders. Above, heavy clouds blotted out the moon, and a sharp wind picked up to bite at Jaskier’s exposed skin. Shivering, he pressed up against Roach’s side, banking on the fog being too thick for Geralt to notice him. He still wasn’t allowed to touch Roach, though the horse had stopped trying to bite or kick him every time he stepped in reach. It had only taken a month for her to warm up to him. She was an ornery beast, but Jaskier couldn’t fault her loyalty to the witcher.

“Here,” Geralt finally said, reining Roach in.

At his side, Jaskier drew up short, peering blindly into the fog. “What?”

“We’ll board here for the night.”

“Where? Have we found an inn?” Jaskier couldn’t see a fucking thing through the fog. He was vaguely aware that they were on a street, and that buildings wavered ghostlike through the mist, but he couldn’t make heads nor tails of their location beyond that.

“It’s an inn.”

“You can see in this?” Jaskier demanded, groping to find Roach’s side. He heard rather than saw Geralt dismount, the movement of his cloak a sweeping rush, and then the thud of his boots hitting the ground. “Of course you can see in this, with your magical witcher eyes. You can see in the dark, can’t you? Like a cat. I should get that done to mine, see if it serves me any better.”

“No.”

“No, maybe not. Where are you?” Jaskier spun around, arms out, trying to find Geralt’s shape in the shifting fog with increasing frustration. “How can a man your size be so bloody quiet?”

“Here.” A hand landed on Jaskier’s forearm, guiding him to Geralt’s shoulder. 

Jaskier held onto the leather armour and beamed into the fog. “Much better. Lead on, then. I’ll see if I can’t sing up some supper, how about that?”

"Hm."

A moment later, after tethering Roach to something—Jaskier couldn't say what—they were inside, and Geralt closed the door firmly against the fog. The inn was of a respectable size, a fire crackling in the hearth and what looked to be the entire town's population huddled in around it, cradling ales and plates of dinner. Jaskier's stomach growled on cue and he pressed a hand over it, tracking the shortest path from the door to the bar where he could order some of his own. They couldn't afford food and room both, but if the people were as desperate for entertainment as they looked, he might be able to persuade a few to part with their coins.

Abandoning Geralt, Jaskier pushed through to the bar, slapping their last coin down on the counter and turning hopeful eyes to the innkeep. "Any rooms left? My friend and I have been travelling for days, and we would give anything for a couple of hot baths and soft beds."

The innkeeper glanced at the solitary coin and Jaskier turned his smile up a notch.

"I've one room left," the man allowed.

"Well, that's better than nothing."

"You a bard?"

Jaskier's fingers skittered over the strap that held his lute on his back. "I am, in fact! A sweeter voice you've never heard, good sir. Perhaps you're wanting to hire my talents for a night? Maybe? Please?"

The innkeeper finally gave a short, dour nod. "Folks could do with some distraction," he muttered. "Tell you what, master bard: you succeed in raising their spirits with a few tunes, and I'll spot you a meal." He raised one finger. "Rousing songs, I tell you. None of that maudlin shite. We don't need the mood dropping any lower, do you understand?"

"Perfectly, my good sir." Jaskier glanced around, trying to catch Geralt's eye, but the witcher had already prowled off to find the shadowiest corner in which to lurk. "I don't suppose you could spare a plate for my friend?"

"Does he sing?"

"Ah—ha. No. Not as such. Or at all."

"Then he can pay for his food same as any other."

Jaskier blew out his breath. "Fine, fine. I suppose that's fair."

Slinging his lute down, he made his way to Geralt's corner, dropping the case on the table before strumming a few opening chords, effectively catching the inn's attention. Geralt melted into the shadows, his hood pulled low, eyes glinting gold from its depths.

Once all eyes were on him, Jaskier grinned and bowed and launched headfirst into a quick little ditty about a very affectionate whore, which soon had his captive audience nodding along and tapping their toes to the tune, if not actively joining in. They were a grim-faced lot, to be sure, reluctant to laugh or sing along. Whatever troubles the innkeeper had hinted at, they seemed to lurk at the forefront of the people's minds, no matter how Jaskier tried to distract them.

After three songs, he shouldered his lute to scattered applause and headed back to the bar to beg for a plate of dinner, or at least an ale to wet his throat. The innkeeper was as good as his word, if begrudging, and handed over a bowl of stew with a thick chunk of bread and butter. He didn't offer any ale, but Jaskier snatched one up from an unminded table as he headed back to Geralt's—

Where a young girl stood trembling with nerves, her hands clutching at Geralt's cloak. Geralt caught Jaskier's eye over her shoulder, looking faintly alarmed.

"Are you the White Wolf from the song?" she demanded, her eyes wide with fear.

Jaskier sidled around her, putting his food on the table before sliding in next to Geralt.

"Are you the witcher?"

"I am," Geralt said in a low voice, as the people at the nearest table over slowly turned to look at them. The girl was loud, her voice high and panicked, and she never took her hands from his cloak, like she could hold him there in place.

"Can you help us?"

Jaskier froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth. "Help with what?"

"There's something stealing the children," the girl said in a rush. "They disappear at night, even from behind locked doors. My sister was stolen from her bed. None of them ever come back. Can you help us?"

Jaskier glanced at Geralt as a murmur ran through the crowd. Their attention was fixed on Geralt now, more intent than they had ever been on Jaskier's performance, until a broad-shouldered man stepped forward and dropped a handful of coins on the table in front of them. Jaskier twitched, barely stopping himself from snatching them up.

"Leave him be, girl. I'll talk to the witcher."

The girl let him go reluctantly before slipping back into the crowd to watch.

The man nodded to Geralt, ignoring Jaskier completely. "It's true, what she says. The young ones have been disappearing. If we pay, can you find this thing and kill it?"

Geralt pushed his hood back, letting the firelight fall on his hair and the strange shine of his eyes. The man drew in a breath and took a step back.

"Yes. I can kill your monster."

xXx

"You don't know what you're hunting and that fog's not going to let up anytime tonight," Jaskier argued as Geralt strapped his swords to his back.

They were holed up in the inn's last room, a tiny fire in the hearth and a tinier bed tucked against the wall. One of them was going to end up sleeping on the floor. It was getting far too cold for that, though if Jaskier dragged a few furs close to the fire to curl up, it might not be so bad. Or he could stake his claim in the bed while Geralt was out on his hunt, and maybe the witcher would let him keep it after he got back.

Jaskier examined his conscience to see if making Geralt sleep on the floor after a hunt twinged anything. He'd probably be tired, and sore. A gentleman would offer him the bed.

Jaskier's conscience shrugged indifferently. He'd never been much of a gentleman, as the scores of cuckolded husbands in his wake would attest.

"I'll be fine," Geralt said.

"Even if you can see, Roach will break a leg! Why not wait till dawn?"

"I'm not bringing Roach," Geralt grunted. "She's already bedded down, and she needs a rest. And there's only so many creatures that like to snatch children and can pass through locked doors. I'll find it soon enough."

Jaskier planted his hands on his hips. "And what am I to do while you go hunting?" 

Normally, he'd think nothing of tagging along, insisting on seeing the fight firsthand. For research purposes, he liked to claim: all the better to wax poetic about Geralt's biceps after the fact. He tended to leave out the gorier bits, like how Geralt usually ended up covered in blood, bile, and guts, and how his eyes went all black and terrifying like that, but people always liked to hear about dashing men with big swords and impressive muscles, and Jaskier was generally delighted to use that excuse to come along and watch.

But even his stupidity had limits, and a fog so dense that he couldn't see his own hand in front of his face—in the dead of night, no less—was one of them.

Geralt didn't even look at him, too busy tightening the straps on his armour. "Write a new song. You've been playing the same three on repeat for the past week. If I have to hear them one more time, I'll shove that fucking lute down your throat."

"They're popular."

"They're repetitive." Geralt clapped him on the shoulder and strode from the room. "Do better. And don't wait up."

He pulled the door shut behind him, leaving Jaskier alone. Sighing, Jaskier traipsed over to the bed, kicking his boots off before flinging himself over the mattress, his lute cradled to his chest like a child. It was true: he did need new songs. The problem was that he actually had a handful written—he just couldn't perform them in front of the witcher. Singing Geralt's praises was well and good—Geralt might complain, but it kept them popular and it kept them paid—but his recent compositions were straying too far from the epic ballads he had promised and too close to proper love songs. Slow, sad melodies full of heartbreak and longing, and that—

Well, that just wouldn't do. It was no good for entertaining the masses and it was no good wearing his heart on his sleeve like that, though Jaskier couldn't imagine Geralt didn't already know. Jaskier had never been subtle in his affections, not for a second, but if plausible deniability was keeping their ship afloat, he wasn't about to blow a cannon hole in its side by singing those particular songs anywhere in Geralt's hearing.

It was a shame, really. They were pretty little tunes. He just didn't know what to do with them.

"Oh, we're a fine pair, aren't we?" he sighed to his lute. It didn't answer, so he swung his legs around to sit up, his back to the wall and the lute in his lap, and got to work composing something new.

xXx

It was near midnight when Jaskier had settled on a chord progression for his song, and late enough that his eyes were dropping closed, though not so late that he wanted to give up on waiting for Geralt's return. Humming softly to himself, he let his fingers dance over the strings without intention, plucking out a lullaby as he dropped his head back against the wall to doze. He should lay down and take advantage of the empty bed while he had it; he could get a few hours of sleep on a soft mattress before the witcher returned and kicked him out.

A creak sounded outside the door, like a footstep, and Jaskier paused, his hands stilling around the lute's neck. A moment later, the door eased open, and Geralt stepped inside, treading heavier than usual.

“You’re back early,” Jaskier noted. “I thought you'd be gone for hours yet. How was the hunt? It's too late to call up a bath, but you’re surprisingly not drenched in intestines this time. Which is nice.”

“Mm.”

“Talkative as ever, I see.”

Jaskier leaned back to watch as Geralt stripped out of his armour, letting the heavy leather pieces drop carelessly to the floor. He looked none the worse for wear: no blood streaked his face or hands, not his nor any monster's, as far as Jaskier could tell, and his leathers seemed clean of the stuff too. Even his hair looked well-kept, like he'd been out for a nice evening stroll rather than monster-hunting in the dead of night. Normally, Jaskier would enjoy the show of Geralt taking off his clothes, even if it was only armour, but he moved stiffly, like he wasn't at home in his own skin. Jaskier's hindbrain shivered a warning he couldn't place.

Frowning, Jaskier pushed the feeling aside. “So? Don’t keep me waiting. Did you find the monster?”

Geralt glanced over at him. “Werewolf.”

“Again? It was a werewolf last time. I’ll be accused of recycling material if this keeps up."

Geralt shrugged. "Easy kill."

"I hope you brought the head back so we can collect our dues. That dinner wasn't nearly enough to fill me, and I know you didn't get more than a bite."

"The head's in the stable. We'll see to it in the morning."

Geralt dropped the last of his armour and prowled closer, head tilted to one side as if examining Jaskier. Cautiously, Jaskier set his lute aside on the bed and climbed to his feet. Geralt was always big, but he rarely loomed over Jaskier. There was something predatory in the way he held himself, like a hunter stalking prey, or a witcher studying his opponent before setting in to strike. He wasn't supposed to look at Jaskier like that.

"Did you find any of the missing children?" Jaskier asked slowly, edging sideways along the bed.

Geralt didn't shift, keeping him backed up and out of room to move. His eyes glowed in the firelight, movements slow and calculated, head still tilted to one side like an animal. Too many people thought of witchers as animals—more creature than human—and suddenly, Jaskier could see why.

"You ask too many questions."

Jaskier swallowed, reaching behind him to retrieve his lute. He brought it up in front of him like a shield, instinctively covering his soft underbelly. The witcher tracked his movements, a wolf-like smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

"Geralt." Jaskier's voice broke on the name, and he cursed himself for the show of nerves. Like facing a wild beast, it seemed important to hide his fear, inexplicable as it was. This was _Geralt_. Jaskier had never been afraid of him before. "How does a werewolf break into people's houses without leaving any trace?"

Geralt shook his head, his gaze locked on Jaskier's. "It wore a different skin. They let it inside without question."

Jaskier's heart skipped a beat. He hadn't even locked the door after Geralt had left. "What?"

"Little bard." Geralt moved faster than Jaskier could track, catching him by the chin, his nails scraping the skin. Jaskier spent most of his days wishing for Geralt's touch, but this wasn't the pleasant spark of skin on skin he longed for. It was like lightning: deadly and immediate. "Don't you know it's dangerous to follow witchers around?"

Jaskier's throat was dry and his tongue felt thick as his heart thudded behind his ribs. "You might have mentioned that once or twice, yes," he said hoarsely. "But what's a little life-threatening danger between friends, am I right?"

"We're not friends," Geralt rasped, and for the first time, Jaskier actually believed him. His nails cut into Jaskier's chin and the soft skin of his throat, his grip hard enough to bruise, and when Jaskier looked into his eyes, it was like looking at a wild animal prowling just outside the fire's glow.

Swallowing hard, Jaskier shoved his lute into Geralt's chest, buying himself a single inch of space before Geralt grabbed the lute by the neck and wrenched it out of his grasp. The lute twanged, a sudden discordant sound as its strings snapped, but Jaskier could hardly mourn its mistreatment when Geralt was going to turn on him next.

“Are you under some sort of enchantment?” Jaskier asked desperately, scrabbling backwards over the bed as he searched for an escape route. “Curse? Poison?”

Geralt closed the distance between them in a single movement, wrapping his fist in the collar of Jaskier’s tunic and dragging him to his knees. Jaskier yelped, an entirely unmanly sound, and grabbed Geralt's wrists, trying to wrench him off. It was like trying to open a bear trap.

“Not that I don’t appreciate this newfound attempt at closeness, but it’s really—ah, it’s really _too_ close. Much too close. Geralt? Are you…are you sniffing me?”

Geralt’s face was buried in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, breath hot against his throat as he inhaled sharply, his tunic collar pulled open to one side. Jaskier froze, staring, his brain a shocked state of white noise. What the fuck was he supposed to do with this? With any of this?

“You smell good,” Geralt purred, his teeth grazing Jaskier’s throat.

“Ah. Thank you? You smell like…like…”

Like nothing.

Normally, Geralt stank of horse and sweat and leather oils, wood smoke when they camped, chamomile when Jaskier was fast enough to catch him with the perfume. Now, Geralt smelled of nothing at all.

Before Jaskier could work out what that meant, Geralt bit down, his teeth sinking into the exposed junction of neck and shoulder like he meant to eat Jaskier alive. The pain was immediate, a red-hot flaring agony that had Jaskier crying out and shoving at the witcher with all his strength. It was like hitting a boulder: Geralt didn't so much as budge.

Geralt had tried to teach him to fight, back when it had first become apparent that Jaskier wasn't going to leave him alone.

"Aim for the head," he advised, tiredly correcting Jaskier's grip on the blade. "If you strike true, you'll brain them, which is fastest. If you miss, there's still a chance you can cut their throat, which is just as good."

Jaskier had looked at the knife in his hands and laughed, more from nerves than mirth. He'd never stabbed anyone before—never even tried to. Geralt had sighed and looked pained when Jaskier told him as much.

"Just try not to get yourself killed."

Jaskier had never expected it would be Geralt trying to kill him, though. Sure, the witcher liked to threaten as much, but they both knew he'd never make good on it. They were friends, whatever Geralt said.

Jaskier had thought they were friends.

But friends didn't try to rip each other's throats out with their teeth.

Geralt pulled back, his mouth stained red with Jaskier's blood, and Jaskier made a short, shocked sound at the sight. His heart beat triple time, fast enough to make him sick, and he couldn't stop staring at Geralt's lips. He knew Geralt's smile, the soft, pleased curl of his mouth when he thought Jaskier couldn't see. This had more in common with the grin he wore when he landed the death blow to a particularly gruesome monster, not the kind he saved for Jaskier. It was a feral kind of smile.

 _This must be how the rabbit feels just before the wolf's jaws close around him,_ Jaskier thought desperately. It would probably make for good poetry if he weren't so wordlessly terrified.

"You smell like they do," Geralt whispered, his breath ghosting against the shell of Jaskier's ear. Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut, shaking. "So afraid. Older than we like them, but still sweet." He bit down again, marking a path across Jaskier's jaw to his lips, to murmur directly into his mouth. "We understand why he keeps you around."

"What," Jaskier croaked.

Geralt kissed him.

He tasted like bone and ash and winter frost, and Jaskier gagged on it, choking on his own tongue as he tried to get away. Geralt pinned him to the bed, his hands tight around Jaskier's wrists, his heavy frame crushing him down without effort.

"Don't pretend you don't want this," he said into Jaskier's mouth. "We've seen you looking. We know your thoughts." He bit Jaskier's lips bloody, then licked them clean.

He was going to die like this, Jaskier realized with a despondent jolt of panic. How many times had he imagined Geralt turning to him, knowing everything and somehow, despite all odds, wanting him back? It wasn't the first time his fantasies had turned to nightmares. Here he was, in bed with his witcher. It should have been a dream, as far as deaths went, but somewhere along the line, something had gone terribly wrong.

"Are you going to sing for us, little bard? Sing, and then we'll eat out your tongue." Geralt bit it, his teeth sharp enough to sting and draw blood. "And your pretty blue eyes. And your heart."

"Don't," Jaskier whispered, around the taste of his own blood.

Geralt laughed. Jaskier had never heard him laugh before. It sounded like a wild dog, sudden and sharp in the night.

"Sing, bard, before we eat you alive."

Jaskier took a shaking breath. He'd always wanted his last words to be something noble, something poetic.

He spat out a mouthful of blood.

"Go fuck yourself."

He groped backwards on the bed for his lute, closed his fingers around its neck, and swung it around, crashing it full force over Geralt's skull. It shattered into splinters and Geralt snarled, teeth flashing, and batted it out of Jaskier's grasp to land broken and useless on the floor.

Jaskier braced himself—for death, for pain, for worse—but something silver flashed, like the crescent moon or a naked blade, and all Jaskier could see were golden eyes flaring wide in shock before the witcher's throat erupted in a gush of dark blood, a knife planted deep in the jugular.


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt pulled his knife from the creature's throat, watching with dissatisfaction as the skin burned and turned black where the silver touched it. He pulled the body back, letting it fall heavily to the floor at his feet. It was disconcerting, seeing his own face staring back at him, golden eyes wide and blank in death. He'd caught the creature unawares, and it had died so suddenly that it hadn't even had the chance to revert to its natural form.

It might have been easier to explain if he'd killed it slower, because Jaskier was staring at him like he was looking at a ghost.

"Geralt?"

"Jaskier. You're alright."

It was more of an order than a question. Jaskier was covered in blood. A spray had caught him across the face when Geralt had hit the creature's artery, but Geralt could smell human blood, too: staining Jaskier's collar, where his neck had been torn open, and running down his chin from bitten lips. If he had other injuries, they weren't apparent at first glance.

Geralt growled and stepped over the corpse towards him, but Jaskier immediately flattened himself against the far wall of the bed, one hand held out to stay his approach.

Geralt stilled.

"What," Jaskier croaked. His eyes were round and panicked, his face white as a sheet, and his hand shook where it hovered, outstretched, in the space between them. "Geralt, what the fuck. What the _fuck_."

"That was a doppler," Geralt said slowly. "It's dead now. This is just me."

Jaskier didn't just reek of blood, but fear, too. It wasn't unfamiliar: Geralt had smelled him scared before, on hunts when the monsters got too close, or when some ornery lord who couldn't keep hold of his wife or daughters had Jaskier up against the wall, threatening to take his balls. It was a sour, panicked smell that lodged in the back of his throat like a cough he couldn't shake out, and he hated it, but it was a familiar taste. All humans stank of fear at one point or another.

But Jaskier had never been afraid of him, before.

Geralt sheathed his blade and raised both hands, palms out, shifting his weight as he considered how to approach. The wound in Jaskier's neck was bleeding freely and needed seeing to, but it wasn't deep enough to kill him. It was his trembling that concerned Geralt more. He was shaking violently, teeth chattering as he panted, trying to catch his breath.

"Jaskier. You're going into shock."

"Don't sound so disappointed," Jaskier said faintly. "I'm only human."

His eyes fluttered shut and he pitched sideways. Lunging, Geralt caught him before he hit his head against the wall, and he slumped in Geralt's arms, unconscious and bloody. Pressing two fingers to his throat, Geralt found his skin icy to the touch, and his pulse rabbit-fast.

"Fuck," he muttered. There was a reason he didn’t travel with human companions. They were so fucking breakable.

Carefully, he lowered Jaskier to the bed, shoving the pillows under his feet to raise them up, then tucking the quilt around his body and piling the furs on top. He was still too pale and too cold, shivering intermittently despite the heaps of blankets, but Geralt could tend to an unconscious body easier than a restless one that shifted and flinched and asked too many questions.

Retrieving his pack from where he had dropped it by the door, Geralt settled on the edge of the bed and drew Jaskier's bloody collar to the side to survey the damage. The doppler's teeth had missed anything vital—the wound would need stitches, and it was going to scar impressively, but it would heal just fine. All Geralt needed to do was clean it out and patch it up, both of which would be more easily achieved with Jaskier unresponsive. But the bard could regain consciousness at any moment, and he would, just as soon as his body realized it wasn't in danger any longer. Geralt had to work quickly.

Dousing a clean cloth with water from the pitcher on the night-stand, he rinsed Jaskier's skin of blood before digging around in the wound itself, making sure to flush it clear. The bite was a nasty thing, but he'd seen worse. It was clearly more foreplay than intent to kill, though he doubted that would be any consolation to the bard when he woke.

Satisfied that the wound was clean, Geralt dug through his bag for salves and ointments to disinfect the area before stitching it up. He lined the bottles up on the night-stand, a tiny army of potions mixed to heal or soothe nearly any ailment of the human body. Some worked just as well on his own—disinfectant was good for any wound, witcher and human alike—but most of the sedatives and painkillers were too weak for his physiology. Until now, he'd had little cause to put them to use.

Jaskier woke as Geralt was piercing a needle through the wound, the ragged edges pulled half-closed. He startled, eyes flashing open as he tried to jerk upright, but Geralt held him down one-handed as he finished pulling the thread through.

"Geralt?" Jaskier rasped. For a split second, his expression was one of immense relief, before shuttering into something wary and hunted. It looked alien on his normally wide-open, trusting face.

"It's me," Geralt said, one hand on the bard's shoulder to hold him in place as he angled the needle in again. "Don't move."

"What…" Jaskier's gaze drifted from Geralt to the body beyond him on the floor, and he flinched back. Geralt stabbed him with the needle.

"Fuck!" Jaskier switched back to panic, trying to claw his way upright, but the mountain of blankets was too heavy, and Geralt had no intention of letting him move.

"Stop it," Geralt said flatly. "It's dead. You're fine."

"Fuck," Jaskier repeated, with feeling. His gaze darted back and forth between Geralt and the dead doppler. "A shapeshifter?"

"I tracked it into the woods," Geralt said, returning to his stitches. He kept his voice low and even, like he used on Roach when she spooked. "Caught up without much trouble, but it made a break for it, and I lost its trail in the fog. It must have stolen my face during the fight. I headed back here; I thought I'd find it more easily in the morning. I didn't expect it would come here, too."

"it wore a different skin, so I let it in without question," Jaskier said numbly.

"What?"

"Something it—you—the doppler said. About getting past locked doors. I knew something was wrong, but I didn't—fuck, Geralt."

"You're alright."

Jaskier snorted, but his skin wasn't as cold anymore, and colour was returning to his face. Geralt tied off the last of the stitches and slathered a salve overtop, fixing a bandage in place. Jaskier held uncharacteristically still for all of it, though he kept shooting Geralt and the corpse nervous glances. It was strange, having him both still and silent. Normally, it was like sharing space with a blue jay: always flitting around from one place to the next, chirping away about whatever inane topic wandered through his head. And Geralt groused and Jaskier bitched back, but they both knew Geralt didn't mean it. Not since the djinn, anyway.

"Finally found a way to shut you up," Geralt said, his tone less unkind than his words.

"Rude and inconsiderate," Jaskier muttered, before working one hand free of the blankets and cautiously prodding Geralt in the shoulder. "It really is you, isn't it?"

"I doubt the doppler's manners were any better."

"He said I smelled nice." A plaintive note crept into Jaskier's tone. "And he kept asking me to sing, though I think that was more of a threat. But the Geralt I know would never pay me a compliment, even if he were trying to fuck me. Or eat me. What was he trying to do?"

"Probably both."

"Fuck. I need a drink." Jaskier cast around as if one might materialize out of thin air. "Where's my bag? I've got a flask in there somewhere. Geralt? Where—"

"No," Geralt said sternly, and selected one of the little bottles from the night-stand, waiting amidst the other ointments and salves. "Drink this, instead."

"What is it?"

"Painkiller."

Jaskier took a long drag, draining the bottle dry in a single go. Geralt watched his throat bob as he swallowed before looking away.

"The next best thing to liquid courage," Jaskier said hoarsely, dropping the empty bottle onto the bed. "The only kind I've got. Fuck, I wish I were drunk, though. I wish I'd been drunk an hour ago."

"Stop moving," Geralt said tiredly. "Let me see your hands."

His skin was littered with tiny scrapes and scratches, his knuckles raw like he'd torn them open against rough hide rather than skin. Jaskier glanced down at them as if he'd forgotten they were still attached.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"Besides the gaping neck wound? Not really, no."

"Hm."

Geralt sat back on the edge of the bed, taking Jaskier's hands to clean the blood from his knuckles.

"It was good, hitting it with your lute like that," he said quietly.

Jaskier flinched, either from his touch or from the reminder. "She deserved better."

"You could have hit it sooner. I've told you before, about self defense. You need to learn it."

"You were talking about monsters, Geralt! I didn't think I'd ever have to fight _you._ "

"If you can fend me off, you can fend off most anything, at least long enough to run away. It's worth knowing." Geralt paused to pull a splinter from Jaskier's palm. "Anyway. That wasn't me."

Jaskier didn't reply, and Geralt didn't press it. The doppler was close enough to being him, anyway: his face, his thoughts. Just not his intentions.

When Jaskier's hands were clean, the cuts washed and treated and all the splinters pulled, Geralt leaned back and began unbuckling his armour. He set the pieces aside one at a time, silent as Jaskier watched him. It had become a routine for them, over the months of travelling together: Geralt taking the leathers off, and Jaskier watching. Jaskier helped, sometimes—after a hunt when the leather was stiff from old blood or dried guts, the buckles jammed up with dirt or monster parts, talking incessantly all the while, like he could mask the way his eyes tracked Geralt's every movement. The way he watched Geralt undress further, too, and the way he hovered in the room while Geralt bathed.

Geralt wasn't an idiot. He knew what it meant to be watched like that, and he knew how easily the bard wanted. How often Jaskier ended up in other people's beds, tumbling from one lover to the next so quickly he could barely remember their names.

He knew that, too, was the reason why Jaskier had let the doppler get so close, and trusted it until there were no excuses left.

"He did the same thing," Jaskier said quietly, when Geralt was free of his armour. "It was the first thing he did when he came in."

Geralt glanced over to the door, where a pile of armour that looked like his lay in a careless heap on the floor. "That's just magic. It's not real."

He nudged his shed armour under the bed where it would stay out of the way, slowly rolling his shirtsleeves to the elbows, before drawing his knife back out from its sheath.

"It's silver," he said, in case Jaskier had somehow missed that. "For monsters."

"Right," Jaskier agreed.

Geralt sighed and stalked back to the doppler's corpse. "Look." Kneeling, he dug the blade into the monster's skin, which hissed and burned where the silver touched it. A line of red appeared under the blade, but without a heartbeat, no fresh blood spilled out. "Any monster, whatever kind, will respond the same. If you're ever in doubt, test it." Returning to the bed, he held the blade out expectantly.

Jaskier wrapped his fingers around the hilt as if expecting it to burn him, too. The leather grip was still warm from Geralt's hand, the blade tapered to a wicked point. Jaskier had always been shit with weapons, and now, with his nerves making his hands shake, he was worse. He stared at the knife in horrified fascination. In retrospect, Geralt should have cleaned it off before offering it to him.

Geralt took Jaskier's wrist and guided the knife forward, until the flat of the blade was pressed against the bare skin of Geralt's forearm. Though Jaskier flinched, nothing happened. Geralt didn't burn.

"See?"

"Alright," Jaskier said shakily. "No monsters here."

But he couldn't tear his gaze from the doppler's face. White hair lay tangled across its brow, its eyes dull and cloudy now, mouth still stained with Jaskier's blood. With a grimace, Geralt pulled one of the furs from the bed and draped it over the body, finally breaking Jaskier's stare.

"Dopplers aren't usually dangerous," he said. "Some are friendly; most are just pests. But some of them are born wrong in the head, and turn out malicious. Same as some people."

"Not actually that comforting," Jaskier muttered, shifting the blankets back to slowly sit up. This time, Geralt let him. The blankets pooled in his lap, making him look smaller than he really was, and the stark white of the bandage on his neck made his pallor seem sickly. But his heart rate was calming, and the sour tang of fear was fading the longer Geralt talked to him.

"I guess I've finally earned my first scar," he said eventually, carefully tracing the outline of the bandage.

"Pray it'll be your last," Geralt advised, without much hope. It was a miracle the bard had gone so long already without collecting a few.

"The ladies love a good scar. You must know that. I can't believe you still don't carry any magical ointments to minimize it, though," Jaskier replied, before turning to study the little line of jars that stood on the night-stand. "Did you use your fancy witcher potions on me?"

"No. I started carrying common salves months ago."

Jaskier broke into a smile for the first time since they had entered the inn. "Aw, I knew you were soft for me."

"Or I didn't want to deal with two corpses in my room instead of just the one."

Shuffling out from under the blankets to swing his feet to the floor, Jaskier nodded to the shrouded body. "Are you going to leave that here all night?"

Geralt shrugged. "Might as well. I'll give it to the villagers in the morning, collect my dues. I found its lair; I'll point them to it and they can deal with the rest."

"The missing children. Were there any survivors?"

He shook his head. "But they can bury the remains."

Jaskier swore softly under his breath. "They won't thank you for it, will they?"

"For giving them their children's bodies? No. But they rarely do."

He tucked his hands under his thighs, his hair falling into his eyes as he dipped his head. "Well, I should thank you, anyway. For coming to my rescue. Again, as ever."

Geralt had never figured out what to do in the face of gratitude. He grunted. "You should get some rest."

"I was just unconscious. I found it quite restful, actually."

"You've got enough painkillers and sedatives in you right now to take down a horse. Lay down and go to sleep."

"In a moment."

As if needing to be contrary, Jaskier stood up, wavering slightly as he found his balance. Geralt watched him closely, ready to catch him again if need be, but the bard steadied himself on his own. Geralt held still, waiting as Jaskier approached him on shaking legs.

"Just don't move," Jaskier said breathlessly, stopping in front of him. "And don't hit me, please." 

Leaning in, his hands light on Geralt's chest, Jaskier kissed him. His eyes fluttered closed just for a second, his lips a warm, steady pressure against Geralt's, his pulse beating fast again, though from anticipation and recklessness rather than shock, this time. Geralt didn't move a muscle, just held his breath and waited for Jaskier to finish.

After a second, Jaskier drew back and nodded, his gaze somewhere on the floor. "Good. Right. Thanks."

"You're welcome?"

"Well, at least you didn't punch me."

Geralt sighed. "Jaskier. You're out of your mind on drugs right now."

"Yeah, probably the only reason I had the nerve to do it." Jaskier aimed for levity and fell short. "He kissed me," he added, abruptly. "Your—the doppler. It was crap, to be quite honest, and I didn't want that to be the only time I—well."

"You wanted to know the difference," Geralt said, offering him another out.

"Something like that." Jaskier wrinkled his nose. "He tasted disgusting. Like death. And not the sexy kind of death that you embody, but like—"

"Like he'd been eating corpses?"

Jaskier went green around the edges. "That would do it."

"Are you going to throw up?"

He swallowed. "No. I'm fine."

Geralt stepped forward, shepherding Jaskier back onto the bed. Jaskier went willingly enough—he always responded well to manhandling, which Geralt appreciated—sitting down and letting Geralt step in between his legs.

"You're fine," Geralt murmured, carding one hand through Jaskier's hair to tease out the strands that were still sticky with blood. "But if you throw up on me, I will toss you out the window."

Jaskier gazed up at him, wide-eyed and trusting once more. "That's fair, actually."

Leaning down, Geralt paused an inch from Jaskier's lips, letting him make the move to close the space between them. Their kiss was open-mouthed this time: not demanding, but a soft meeting of lips and tongues. Jaskier moaned into it, arching up to wrap his arms around Geralt's neck. He tasted of stale blood and the bitter memory of the doppler's tongue, but Geralt held him closer and chased the taste away, replacing it with his own.

When they parted, Jaskier looked dazed. Geralt couldn't tell if his pupils were blown wide from the kiss or the drugs.

"Better?" Geralt prompted.

"Ah," Jaskier said, eloquently. "Much, yes." He ran his tongue over his split lip and didn't even wince. "How long have you known?"

"A while." Since the very beginning, in all truth. Jaskier didn't know the meaning of subtlety, but Geralt could also smell arousal. He didn't intend to mention that bit.

Jaskier's shoulders slumped. "Well, if the doppler knew, of course you did."

"I'm pretty sure everyone knows."

He snorted and ran one hand haphazardly through his hair. "If I hadn't been such a coward, I could have done that months ago."

"You might be an idiot, but I wouldn't call you a coward."

"Oh, am I not?"

"You're the cocky little shit that came swaggering up to my table in a pub, even when you knew what I was, and attached yourself to my side, careless of the dangers that followed me. No coward would do that."

"That doesn't make me brave," Jaskier said quietly. "Just lovesick."

Geralt rolled his eyes. "You've been pining after someone new every day since we've met. Lovesick is what you do."

"I haven't followed any of _them_ halfway across the continent," Jaskier pointed out.

Geralt studied him. He looked petulant, but mostly tired. The circles under his eyes were dark, and a purple bruise was blossoming in the corner of his mouth. He looked delicate and breakable and Geralt had always assumed he would lose him—either the bard would grow bored and wander out of his life as easily as he'd entered it, or Geralt would drive him away, or he'd get injured or fall sick or prey to some foolish, random accident. Human lives were so short, and so easily disrupted. Was it really love that had Jaskier so willing to throw his in danger for the sake of keeping near the witcher? Geralt had assumed it was out of some sense of friendship—and of course the obvious infatuation. Lust, Geralt knew and recognized.

Love would explain it better.

"Hm," he finally said.

Jaskier threw up his hands. "I tell you I'm in love with you, and all I get is more of your endless grunting? Typical. If the bloody doppler had stuck to your usual range of grunts and groans, I might never have known it wasn't really you." He paused. "Actually."

Clumsily, he retrieved the knife from its resting place on the night-stand, holding it out uncertainly to press the silver to Geralt's arm again.

Geralt watched him with quiet amusement. "Still me."

Sheepishly, Jaskier returned the knife. "Just checking. Seeing as you haven't hit me or sent me to sleep in the stable or just…you know, taken Roach and ridden off into the night." He rubbed his temples with a frown. "I never intended to tell you," he confessed. "I thought it was one of those things best left unspoken, you know? You've always said how you hate being needed. So I thought I'd pine away, as I do, and you'd go on being your usual witchery self, all stoic and brooding and such, and we'd just…keep on. I was never going to _do_ anything about it."

"I know," Geralt said patiently.

"I don't even know why I'm telling you all this now. Is it the shock?"

"It's the drugs."

"Right. Yeah. I guess it would be." Jaskier let his hands drop, heaving a sigh. "Now what?"

Wordlessly, Geralt removed his boots and then his shirt, tugging it over his head before dropping it on the floor. Jaskier watched him, his eyes huge and his mouth slightly open as Geralt undid his hair tie and shook his hair loose, running one hand through it before discarding his belt in turn.

"Um," said Jaskier.

Geralt blew out the lamp on the night-stand. "Move over."

Jaskier obediently shuffled up to the headboard, clutching one of the furs with him and never shifting his gaze. Geralt climbed onto the bed around him, claiming a space against the wall and stretching out. The room was lit only by the fire, crackling low in the hearth, and it painted Jaskier in a golden, flickering glow, more shadows than light.

"Not that I ever thought I'd turn down a proposition," Jaskier began in a strangled voice, "but I am very injured and probably traumatized, and honestly, I'm not sure I'm up for much right now."

"Lay down and sleep," Geralt said, arranging the blankets over them.

Jaskier slowly shuffled down, still casting disbelieving looks at Geralt as he went. "I'd started this evening expecting to sleep on the floor, you know."

"You just said you're injured and traumatized. Even I'm not that much of a bastard."

"And you're not sleeping on the floor because…?"

"Easier to keep an eye on you from up here," Geralt said, straight-faced. "In case you go into shock again."

A smile tugged at one corner of Jaskier's mouth. "Alright. I'm not complaining."

He settled in against the pillow, facing out into the room. Geralt too lay on his side, his back pressed to the wall as they both struggled to fit on the narrow bed frame. It wasn't built for two grown men; it was barely built for one. He studied the back of Jaskier's head, the shape of his neck and the slope of his shoulders under his tunic, the way his back rose and fell with his breaths. Reassuringly alive.

"Bit cramped," Jaskier muttered. "I have to say, while we're in a confessional mood, that I had imagined a significantly nicer bed for doing this."

"We're sleeping."

"Fuck off."

Geralt smiled, knowing Jaskier couldn't see it, and slung one arm over the bard's side. Jaskier yelped, but Geralt ignored him, coaxing him closer. "Shut up, bard."

"Sorry if I find this a little distracting!"

Geralt could smell just how distracted he was.

"Close your eyes and let the drugs work. You'll be asleep in minutes if you just stop squirming."

"I'm trying to get comfortable."

Geralt held him closer, the line of Jaskier's back pressed all along his front from shoulders to knees. Jaskier's heart rate had jumped at the first touch, but was slowly settling again into something steady and smooth. Still fast compared to Geralt's, but their breathing matched, gradually synchronizing as Jaskier finally relaxed.

"Comfortable now?" he murmured in Jaskier's ear.

Jaskier whined but didn't try to move. "In the morning…"

In the morning, Geralt would drag the corpse that looked like him into the town square, and the villagers would hand him a bag of coin in exchange for directions to find their children's bodies. He'd saddle up Roach and they'd ride out, and Jaskier would bitch about how everything hurt, and Geralt would stop on the road more often than usual to let him rest and check that the idiot hadn't pulled his stitches. Jaskier would go hunting through countless markets to find the perfect lute so he could start his insufferable singing again—the same singing that Geralt didn't really mind, not anymore—and Geralt would buy him a silver knife of his own, whether he liked it or not.

"In the morning, I want to kiss you again, without the drugs," Jaskier said, sounding half asleep already. His hand found Geralt's over his ribs and tangled their fingers together.

"In the morning, I'm teaching you how to hold a knife properly, so you don't get stuck like this again."

"I'm a lover, not a fighter. You know that."

"Learn how to be both."

Jaskier twisted around in his grasp. His eyes looked huge in the dark, the blue turned navy and grey in the shadows of the firelight. His hair was burnished bronze, the edges of his face gentle and ready for sleep. "Like you?" His tone was teasing, but his expression turned soft and wondering as he studied Geralt's face. As his gaze dropped to Geralt's lips, he murmured, "I know you're soft, deep down. I know you wouldn't hurt me. Not the real you."

Something flipped in Geralt's stomach—surprise or pleasure, he couldn't tell. "Next time, I'd prefer you'd stab me right away rather than give me the benefit of the doubt," he said honestly.

Jaskier nestled more firmly against his chest. "Next time you should rescue me before I have to sacrifice my poor lute to the cause."

Sighing, Geralt pressed a kiss to his forehead. When he drew back, Jaskier's eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and even. Geralt's arm was going to fall asleep, trapped under Jaskier's shoulders, but he didn't have the heart to move him. Instead, he let Jaskier rest his head against his chest, over his own inhumanly slow heart. The morning, and everything it would bring, was inevitable, and only a few dark hours away. When it dawned, it would be grey and cold and frost-tinged, and there was a corpse to deal with and money to be made.

But Geralt could still taste Jaskier's kiss on his lips, bloody and bitter. He wanted to know what he tasted like without that—sober, clear-headed and unafraid. It was dangerous, wanting things. Geralt knew that all too well. But it made the morning seem a little more inviting, so he allowed it, tucking it away under his ribs to nurture it like a tiny flame.

Geralt waited for sleep to take him, enjoying the feeling of a warm body in his arms, and let his gaze drift to the room's tiny window. Outside, the fog was finally clearing, and high in the velvet sky, the sliver of the crescent moon hung there like a silver blade, beautiful and deadly, chasing the monsters away.


End file.
